


Circadian Rhythm

by Xie



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: gapfiller
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-06
Updated: 2010-09-06
Packaged: 2017-10-11 13:13:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/112778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xie/pseuds/Xie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Justin alone, post-507.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Circadian Rhythm

Before I left, the mornings were the worst. I'd lie in bed listening to Brian get ready for work, showering, making coffee, clearing up whatever clutter we'd been too high or horny or just too tired to take care of the night before.

Lately there hadn't been too much of that.

Once Brian was gone, I'd get up and start a day that went nowhere and changed nothing. Some mornings I'd stand under the water in the shower, heat raining down on the back of my neck and shoulders, shampoo running over my face and arms and stomach. Others, I'd get in and out as fast as I could, hurrying into a day that had absolutely no purpose.

After I left, the mornings got better. Freer, lighter, more open-ended. I'd wake up and figure out what I was going to do next. Where I wanted to live, who I wanted to be. I found my studio, and spent a week of mornings fixing it up the way I wanted it. I phonebanked against Proposition 14, figured out where the nearest all-night supermarket was, and emailed everyone with my new address.

I didn't email Brian, though. I phoned him. He didn't make a sarcastic remark about being sure to send a housewarming gift. He just said, "Thanks," his voice soft in a way that made everything seem kind of blurry for a minute.

I didn't say "later" when I hung up. I didn't say anything at all.

But the nights were nothing like the mornings. I'd had enough bad nights in my life that I'd been sort of prepared for them, built up some defenses against that.

I had no fucking idea.

Because these bad nights didn't come with nightmares or memories, regrets or an aching heart. They came with skin that felt electric, fingers that tingled and burned, my cock crushed into the sheets or tightly gripped in my hand.

I went out and got laid. It had always worked for Brian, at least for a while, and some nights all I wanted was for it to work long enough for me to get some sleep. And it would feel good for a minute, thrusting inside someone's mouth or ass, hot and wet and even sometimes comforting. But after I slid into my own bed and closed my eyes, it would only be a few minutes before the ghost of Brian's breath on my neck or hand on my shoulder woke me up.

I'd stare at the light coming in my dirty windows, think about a painting, try to decide if I should move the bed to the other side of the room. But it would wash over me again, static and noise, my hand brushing against my own stomach, sparks dancing on my skin.

I'd jerk my cock, wet with spit, trying to white out my mind. And it would always help, too, until something that felt like an opening fist would unfurl inside me, orgasm overcoming resistance while I pressed my face against the pillow, teeth biting hard into my lip.

 


End file.
